The leader of the rebel cell who called themselves The Dead stepped off of his personal carrier, deeply lost in thought. His companion through the last mission scurried past him in the direction of their base. Horzen was a deeply hostile planet, home only to a small insulated research facility. It was long abandoned, of course, and not even the rebels squatting there knew who had built it or for what purpose. It was a matter of time until it was found by the affini, naturally. They didn't choose to label their organization The Dead out of optimism. 

Their leader eagerly looked forward to pulling a pack of cigarettes from the blue coat that hung in his office, pulling out one of them, and smoking it. Human made cigarettes older than the Protectorate were becoming a rare commodity, as one might expect. Rebels and anti-affini citizens used them as currency on rare occasions, but it wasn't a formal exchange of capital so much as a return to the barter system. They were rare, and the agreement that they had value had become an act of rebellion in and of itself. This was made by human beings, perhaps not "free" in the way that idealist fools defined the term in their fantastical imaginings of impossible worlds ruled by charity- but at least ruled over by other humans who could be shot in the head. 

The leader walked on heavy steps through corridors and rooms with heavy metal doors. Despite being a research facility first and foremost, the building was designed more like a bunker. It was for this reason, as he had first mapped it out during an expedition in between encounters with space pirates, that he had come to think it was a military research installation. Some of the tools present implied that rhinans had worked here as well. Prisoners, perhaps, or traitors to their kind? It was impossible to guess. He stopped at a big slab of a door, made of some kind of alloy that almost resembled plastic. He placed a gloved hand on it and pursed his lips. 

Unlike the chrome white of the doors, floors and walls, and the dark purple of the ceiling, this door was a strange blue. A panel next to it served as the key: it had a number pad on it, which one used to type in a password which would open the door. Another such panel was found on the other side, after they'd hacked into the first and reset the passcode, but it didn't seem to function. What was more, something about the terrestrial caverns on the other side blocked electronic communications from getting into the building. They'd not explored far into those caves. It was ominous, and they had concluded that something terrible might rest beyond that door which it served to protect against. After all, the limited writing they had access to was in a script none of them could read. Carson, their logistics guy, had even risked a trip to the ARGOS and consulted affini records. If they knew the language, nothing in that station's library suggested so. 

Perhaps it was hypocritical of them to live in fear of those caves, while supposedly devoting their brief lives to opposing an unstoppable evil. He had pondered this question many times, but never come to a conclusion that felt satisfying. This was no exception. After a while lost in thought, he took his hand from the door and turned away, walking towards his office. He traversed more corridors, silent save for the clicking of his shoes against the smooth floor. The man rubbed his chin as he pondered how long they had left. No traces of this planet existed within the Accord's records, and if any of their domesticated former leaders knew about it they'd already have squealed. The only ticking clock staring them down was the inevitability of an affini vessel either scanning the planet by chance or electing to terraform it. 

Yet still, such an event would spell their doom without a speck of uncertainty or a single ember of hope. Some affini protocol would cast an unwanted gaze just close enough to spot them in its peripheral vision, and then they would die. Some would prove to be cowards, as was inevitably the case with all forces composed of people. Some would abandon their humanity rather than continue to fight, shaming their family and their species forever. He often said that if he knew which men would succumb, he'd do their fathers a favor and execute them on sight. Sadly, even if he could know which of them were deserters, that wasn't a luxury he could currently afford. 

He turned a corner and spotted a robot shaped mostly like a dog standing guard outside his office. A custom-made, one of a kind machine based on the mass-produced Greshul riot control unit, this device had a face made of smooth plates, a long flexile tail like that of a scorpion and big rectangular claws on its feet that could reconfigure themselves into slashing weapons, climbing implements, or nonlethal grappling tools to subdue unruly humans with. Its legs numbered eight, unlike an actual dog, and its face plates sported a cold pair of glowing red "eyes"- cameras, of course. It was designed for intimidation over efficacy. This was a riot unit after all- if it was meant to kill crowds on its own rather than control them as a team, it would be a generic looking drone equipped with bombs and guns. 

The leader drew closer to the beast-shaped device. Few of its kind remained. Most that did, the affini had taken and repurposed into garish decorations. The Greshul riot unit, developed and rolled out during the war with the affini to help quell rebel planets, had never been made in numbers that great to begin with. Greshul Corp's pivot to private arms manufacturing to capitalize on the war held the responsibility for that: they weren't made until recently. And not long after that, humanity fell. 

"Hey, Cerberus!" The leader said, his eyes lighting up with an emotion resembling joy. He dropped to one knee and petted the drone, which did absolutely nothing to indicate any kind of response. Its face visor was glasslike to the touch, while the rest of its body was similarly smooth but more obviously metallic in nature. The eye-cameras seated within the weapon's vaguely triangular head stared blankly. 

"Hey," said someone from behind him. The commander of The Dead stood straight and turned to face them. It was a young woman, about twenty. Her face suggested that whatever information he was about to receive, it was bad. He gritted his teeth in anticipation of the worst. 

"Yes?"

"Sir!" She saluted. The commander rolled his eyes. They weren't a formal military anymore, these gestures were unnecessary. "We found…this, while we were cleaning up after an encounter with The Winter of Man. Oh, uh, they found our backup facility, too. On the moon." 

Damnit!

Well, with any luck they didn't know about the bunker. It wasn't visible from orbit, and human scanners couldn't pick it up unless guidance was given that required knowledge of an underground bunker in the first place. Still, this was yet another win condition for the aliens: finding something from the Winter of Man about Horzen's moon. 

She handed him a physical journal. He popped it open and quickly recognized Vincent's handwriting. Its contents, not being written in code, were easy for him to quickly decipher. Vincent planned on killing him and taking over, did he? And worst of all, he had backup plans that involved selling out to the affini if shit went south. Well. A traitor, not just hypothetically but actively, a traitor to him personally, in the immediate future? Killing him wasn't a luxury. It was mandatory. 

"Cerberus, he's no good to me dead."

"Mission accepted," responded the Greshul riot control unit in a voice like a human's. 

"Vincent Vandover," the commander specified. Cerberus beeped and turned, devices that lined its maw detecting chemical traces which it used to calculate what direction to go in search of its quarry. The metallic beast walked away on one plodding metal step at a time, the sound of its four-clawed feet meeting the ground alien and remarkably distinct. "Thank you for your report," said the leader of The Dead. "You are dismissed." He turned away from her and entered his office, where a blue and gold coat hung from a nice wooden coatrack built in- according to their specialist's best guess- the twenty four sixties. He brushed aside one of its sleaves and reached into a pocket. 

The man pulled out a carton and popped it open. Three white sticks sat inside, with a plastic rectangle keeping them company. He plucked the latter and one of the former, then closed the pack and put it down on his desk. He dropped into a swivel chair and put the end of the cigarette in his mouth. It tasted bad, of course. With his hands, he lifted the lighter to the other end and lit it. Immediately, toxic smoke poured into his lungs…but, equally immediately, nicotine hit his brain. 

So Vincent was a traitor was he? It was annoying, it was a setback, but he was hardly upset. Trust got you killed in this business, after all. He sat and waited for Cerberus to drag Vincent back to this room, most likely unconscious. The drugs in the hose hidden by Cerberus's jaws were weaker than affini anaesthetics, but more than enough to incapacitate a human in seconds or kill a rat even faster. They'd long since run out of the vermin that once infested the station, letting it hunt them for sport. 

—-------

Vincent came to his senses in a chair. In front of him was a large desk. On the opposite side of that desk, there was another chair. It faced away from him, towards a wall adorned with posters. Some were for old animated works, such as the one with a blonde boy in a red coat, but most bore Terran propaganda from various sources during the war. Featured most prominently was a stunning image of a Terran warship ripped to pieces by bleeding vines, a giant sword buried in its fragmented center. Beneath it were the words "REMEMBER THE MURXENGEAR." 

One was a parody of an older poster from centuries past, its original symbolism now lost on him. A muscular woman once hailed the galaxy over as The Bulldog flexed her arm, an affini core crushed juicily in her fist. Beneath her arm, green ichor fell dribbling from her skin onto lettering that spelled the words "DO NOT ABANDON HER." 

There was no mistaking it. He was in the commander's office. Unfortunately, that also meant he was as good as dead. Had he slipped up somehow? The commander had not suspected him on the Crest, or he could have simply tossed him out of the carrier in Horzen's orbit. He tried to stand, more out of obligation than hope. To his surprise, he was not tied down. His body rose to its feet. 

"Good evening Vincent." He turned towards the voice-

There was a gun in his mouth. 

"Greetings, sir," said the commander, wearing his ostentatious coat. The commander inherited the coat from his grandfather, Vincent was fairly sure. Its blue and gold gave it an air of forceful authority, and despite being made for someone else it fit the commander's body perfectly. The commander's eyes burned into Vincent, unerring and free of anger. Vincent was not an enemy in those eyes, nor an obstacle. He was a task: shooting him was simply an ordinary step towards completing the day's duties. The gun's cold metal felt foreign and hostile between Vincent's jaws, promising certain death but lacking the decency to deliver it. 

"Greetings, sir," Vincent replied after taking a half step back to get away from the gun. The commander simply stepped robotically closer, and then placed the bottom of the barrel against the lower row of Vincent's teeth. Vincent's eyes scanned the room. Nobody else was there, but even if he got away or fought back somehow…that damn drone would execute him then and there. He was well and truly finished. 

"Why allow me to wake up?" Asked Vincent, unwilling to bother with this warped game of intrigue. The commander laughed, pulled away the gun, and shrugged. 

"I've been trying to save Cerberus's knock out gas," answered Vincent's boss. "The amount it takes to kill someone is wasteful when you can knock them out and supplant the surplus with a sharp object or a bullet or a good fall."

Vincent reached for his knife. Whether through some act of stupidity or divine intervention, it remained there in his pocket. He gripped it and plucked the handle from its holster, thumb prepared to drive it in. The commander watched him do this but rather than retaliate, he just put his gun down on the desk. The drone stood and walked over to their side, staring into Vincent with intent no warmer than that of its master. 

"This robot's name is intriguing," the rebel leader muttered, "if you'd care to listen," the commander turned his back to Vincent. Vincent reached for his gun with his other hand. That, too, had foolishly been left on his person. He gripped it, unsure whether he could take aim faster than the drone could attack. Shooting the commander at this range would kill him, but then Cerberus would tear Vincent apart. He could shoot Cerberus…most instances of its model shared a weak point just behind the head, where shooting it would rupture important fuel and coolant lines and make its internal engine go critical. The more modern versions even came equipped with the ability to initiate a deliberately worsened version of that reaction on purpose to self-destruct, much like some species of ant from back on Terra. Did this customized drone have the same weakness? Could his ammunition, modified to save metal and powder while remaining sufficiently lethal in low gravity environments, deal enough damage in one shot to exploit it? 

"Cerberus," Vincent spat. "Big dog. Three heads. Myth. I'm familiar." 

"Yes, well, in both its original myth and the Divine Comedy Cerberus guards the underworld," said Vincent's killer-in-the-making as if he were not about to murder a man. "But, the funny thing is that in the Divine Comedy, Cerberus specifically guards hell. Strange, no? Hell is a prison. THE prison. Why would anyone want to break in, and why would you protect its gates facing outside? From what intruder do you protect Satan himself?" 

"Get on with it," grunted Vincent, his face taut and tired. His commander removed a bladed weapon from its sheath, which hung by a strap from the wall- it was a machete, modeled after the famous and much larger Weedwhacker that killed an affini. The commander spent a moment admiring the blade. 

"You objected to my intentions?" 

"Yes," snarled Vincent. "The Son of Cain is a traitor to all mankind! He murdered an ally, he turned himself in to the affini!" He took aim with his gun. Hesitation lashed itself around his arms. The drugs from his encounter with Cerberus blurred his vision and added a shake to his hand. If he pulled the trigger, he might not hit his target somewhere that would kill. He might not even hit his target at all. Vincent's arm fell to his side. He shakily returned the gun to its holster and readied his knife. 

"So you say," the boss murmured under his breath. He contemplated the machete in his hand a while longer. He turned, and the white of his polished weapon glinted. The commander of The Dead had tired, sunken eyes. "We can attribute Cerberus's association with hell specifically to Dante; in his source myth he guards the underworld, which is the afterlife in its totality. I've always been rather bemused by the double meaning of the word guard, you know. It can either be protecting someone for their sake, or standing ready to endanger them for everybody else's." 

"God, you're insufferable," Vincent snarled-

A blade at his throat.

"The moment I stop monologuing," said the commander with palpable annoyance, "you go to hell. You know this, right? I'd want any dirt on the big dog I could get." Vincent glowered and made an attempt at lifting his knife to his executioner's throat, only for a hand to seize hold of his wrist and pull it away.

"Okay…and?" 

"Well!" The man with the machete remarked, "it's interesting because naming the robot Cerberus has radically different meaning depending which one is its namesake. Greek Cerberus keeps the dead in their place in loyal service to its master. It is a sheep dog, in essence- it keeps its subjects in place without ill will. 'Christian' Cerberus is a jail keeper, actively hostile and almost malevolent. Christian Cerberus serves a God who hates all those who it watches over. Both are hostile to those who preside in their domain in a way, but one answers to a master within its jurisdiction and the other does not. Hades is a king- but Satan is no warden."

"Okay, and?"

"In a sense, then, are all men at arms not Cerberus, regardless of their station and placement?" The man with the machete mused. "Are we not beasts then, whether sheepdogs or wolves- the fangs of an outer class, regardless of whether we are put to use within or without?" 

"So the dog's a cop."

"To be reductive, yes." The commander's voice betrayed no small annoyance. "We are the last vestiges of hell. Our old regime is dead- and we both know that our own days are numbered. But- did us hellhounds serve Lucifer or Hades? Are the affini God, or Orpheus?"

"I don't care!" Vincent growled. The knife trembled in his unsteady hand, which his captor had let go of. "Why should it matter if the master of the underworld is warden or inmate number one? Our duty stays the same regardless!"

"Yes," said the commander. "Our duty, which is fundamentally to us and to our own. And as for mine…with this, I do my part."

The machete danced. Vincent breathed his last.